Chapter 67
The interior of the transport rumbled as it pulled away from the Glint estate, the soft hum of reinforced wheels and armored plating giving the ride an industrial rhythm.
Riven leaned back against the wall, trying to steady the adrenaline still crackling in his system.
Across from him, Thane sat with his arms crossed, his shirt torn and blood drying across one side like war paint.
He hadn’t said much since they’d left the Patriarch’s dining hall, but his presence filled the cabin like pressure in a sealed room.
The door at the back of the transport hissed open, and a young elf stepped inside with the kind of casual efficiency that suggested they were used to far worse situations.
Their frame was slim, but there was confidence in the way they moved, a calm surety in their eyes.
They couldn’t have been more than twenty years old but their expression was all business.
“Ah, perfect,” Sorrell said, twisting in his seat to gesture. “This is Vexa, our squad’s field medic. Don’t let the baby face fool you. They’ve stitched half of us back together more times than I can count.”
Riven raised an eyebrow. “They look like they should be in school.”
“Not mutually exclusive,” Vexa said dryly, setting down a field bag and pulling on gloves. “Now shut up and let me work.”
They crouched in front of Thane, already scanning him with a handheld diagnostic wand that lit up with a soft green glow as it passed over his injuries.
“He’s in rough shape,” Vexa murmured, eyes flicking to the readout. “Fractured ribs, a torn deltoid, internal bruising along the left side—he shouldn’t even be sitting upright.”
“Tell him that,” Riven muttered.
Thane didn’t so much as flinch. “Do what you need to. Just make it quick.”
Vexa rolled their eyes but didn’t argue. They pulled a sealed injector from their pack and loaded it without hesitation.
“We need you in top form,” Sorrell said, his voice unusually level. “No more heroics with half a lung. You’re the Beast, remember?”
Riven chuckled, but Thane gave Sorrell a long, slow look.
“Oh, come on,” Sorrell grinned. “Don’t act shy. Everyone called you that during the conflict. You singlehandedly put five Hollow Hand commandants in the morgue. My team has a drinking game about it.”
Vexa snorted softly as they swabbed Thane’s arm with antiseptic. “You’re welcome, by the way,” they said, and pressed the injector to his skin.
Thane didn’t react to the hiss of medicine pushing into his bloodstream. Riven watched the set of his jaw relax slightly, the first sign he’d seen that Thane even felt the pain he’d been carrying.
“How long until he’s mobile?” Riven asked.
“Already mobile,” Vexa replied. “But give it twenty minutes and he’ll feel almost human again.”
“Not the goal,” Thane said under his breath.
Sorrell leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, inhuman works too. We’ve got a Hollow Hand to gut.”
The convoy slowed as the Virellien estate came into view—what was left of it.
Smoke rose in thin columns from the far side of the property, and even at a distance, Riven could see signs of damage.
Shattered glass glinted in the midday sun, burn marks across stone walls, the scorched remnants of the outer gate twisted open like a peeled lid.
The transports came to a halt in unison. The engine hum fell away, replaced by the low chirp of birds too used to violence to flee from it.
Sorrell was the first to move, hopping down from the transport with a fluid ease, his sidearm already drawn and held loosely at his side.
His squad followed, weapons ready, disciplined but alert.
Thane came next, moving like someone who’d shaken off the worst of his pain and stuffed what remained into a mental box he could deal with later.
Riven landed behind him, boots crunching softly on gravel.
“We go the rest of the way on foot,” Sorrell said without turning around. “Too noisy otherwise.”
They spread out, boots treading carefully over uneven terrain, until Sorrell slowed and held a hand out to Riven.
“Wait.” He reached into a thigh pocket and pulled out a slim black case. Inside was a syringe filled with pale amber liquid, its contents faintly shimmering.
Riven eyed it warily. “What is this?”
Sorrell offered it to him. “Insurance.”
“Against?”
“House Glint’s been working on a counteragent to neutralize the effects of tainted Soulglass. Took a while—dangerous shit, incredibly unstable. But we think this formulation might finally hold.”
Riven’s fingers tightened around the case. “You think?”
Sorrell shrugged. “Let’s just say there’s nothing like a field test.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Neither is getting torn apart by drugged-up berserkers,” Sorrell replied, and his tone sharpened just enough to suggest he wasn’t being flippant anymore.
Riven looked down at the vial again. The liquid inside caught the light and refracted it like a gemstone. “Is it meant to inoculate or treat?”
“Bit of both,” Sorrell said. “Ideally you take it before exposure. Might dampen the reaction if you’re already hit, but I wouldn’t bank on miracles. You’re not highborn. Your system doesn’t have built-in resistance.”
Riven pocketed the syringe carefully, the cold weight of it settling against his ribs. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet. Just don’t waste it.”
Riven glanced at Thane, who stood a few paces ahead, scanning the tree line like he could see the battle before it happened. “I won’t,” he said.
As they reached the edge of the outer grounds, a hush settled over the group. Even the wind seemed to pull back, as if the air itself knew this was the precipice of something ugly.
Sorrell stepped up beside Thane, his expression losing its usual glibness. His voice was low, firm. “Lead the way, Virellien.”
Thane gave a single nod and began moving forward, his posture straightening with every step. He moved like a man returning to his battlefield, not out of choice, but obligation—a knife sliding back into the sheath of its war.
Sorrell turned to his squad. “Fan out. Two-meter spread. Eyes sharp, fingers off triggers unless it’s hot. We don’t know what we’re walking into, so treat everything like it’s a trap.”
The Glint soldiers moved like water, flowing out across the estate’s perimeter, their boots nearly silent on the broken stone and scorched grass.
Riven fell in behind Thane, close enough to keep pace but not so near that he’d get in the way if it came to a fight. His hand hovered near his weapon, and in his pocket, he could feel the syringe pressing against his ribs.